48 Hours Mystery -- For God's Will
by angelcobra
Summary: "48 Hours Mystery" has decided to devote an episode to the Hankel case. Under FBI orders to participate, how will Spencer Reid and the team cope with reliving the harrowing ordeal in Georgia for millions of TV viewers? Familiarity with "Revelations" (Episode 2.15) advised. Spoilers also for "The Big Game" and "The Fisher King, Parts 1 and 2."
1. Chapter 1

**48 Hours Mystery- For God's Will**

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 1

On this Saturday night, 8.6 million television sets across the United States were tuned to CBS. Everywhere, that is, except in one location.

At the Bennington Sanitarium in Las Vegas, Nevada, every television set in every common room had been unplugged.

The staff told the unsuspecting patients, including a former 15th-century literature professor named Diana Reid, that they were working to fix the problem.

The minute hand struck the top of the hour.

On 8.6 million screens, familiar words appeared:

Real People

Real Crimes

Real Life Mysteries

On their screens, the viewers saw a night sky, clouded over and devoid of stars.

The narrator's voice-over began.

"A serial killer was on the loose in rural Georgia."

The camera panned down to a barnyard dominated by the looming presence of a two-story barn, partially masked in ghostly shadows.

"The throats of his first two victims, Dennis and Lacy Kyle, had been slashed after a mysterious 911 call on Super Bowl Sunday."

Pictures of a relaxed and smiling Dennis and Lacy Kyle on vacation appeared on the screen.

"The local police wasted no time in calling in the FBI's elite Behaviorial Analysis Unit, the BAU. The team's seven members, including their technical analyst, quickly determined that a twisted desire for Biblical revenge was the motive behind the murder."

A highlighted page from the Book of Revelation dominated the screen.

"The hunt for a killing team was on, but no one could have foreseen the shocking and terrifying turn of events this manhunt would take. Before it was over, one woman would die the most grisly death imaginable, and another young woman, an FBI liaison officer, would narrowly escape the same horrible end."

A deserted rural cemetery, silvery under a moonlit night sky, appeared on screen.

"Finally, it would all end here. In a cemetery on a plantation in rural Georgia. On a bitterly cold night, a severely tortured young FBI agent, being forced to dig his own grave, would face down the demented serial killer who had kidnapped and tortured him.

What twists and turns of fate led to this desperate life and death struggle?"

The narrator and show's anchor appeared on the screen.

"I'm Peter Van Sant. Tonight on '48 Hours Mystery - For God's Will'."

**Two months previous.**

Reid felt as if all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked out of Strauss' office. His hand flew up to grip her desk, as a wave of the dizziness swept over him.

"Sit down, Agent Reid," Strauss said dryly. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse and a mannish gray suit. "This conversation is unlikely to get any better."

Strauss' brisk, businesslike, unemotional persona was on full display.

Meeting her steely gaze, Reid knew better than to expect empathy. He sat heavily in one of the no-nonsense chairs facing her desk.

"'48 Hours Mystery'?"

"It's a true crime documentary. On CBS," Strauss said.

"I know what '48 Hours Mystery' is," Reid said impatiently.

The misconception that he was clueless about popular culture had been carefully cultivated as he had become more socially aware. Lecturing him on the trivial always seemed to please others.

"What I can't comprehend," Reid continued, "is why the producers chose the Hankel case." It took every effort to sound detached, but the name of Hankel on his lips awakened something icy and slithery in his stomach.

"I couldn't say. You know the lurid details better than I do."

Reid wondered if Strauss was acting purposely offensive. He wouldn't put it past her. Maybe, in some perverse way, she thought it would keep him grounded.

It wasn't working.

The "lurid details" were hammering at his consciousness, wailing like banshees to be let in.

"The producers have been granted access to both the Georgia State police and our own FBI files under The Freedom of Information Act," Strauss went on after he failed to respond.

The icy, slithering thing stirred again.

"Everything that isn't censored, of course," she said pointedly.

Alarms jangled in the primal, survivalist part of his brain. What was actually in those files? What secrets did he mistakenly believe were buried?

"The entire team will be granted paid administrative leave for the interviews," Strauss was rambling on.

"You don't… You can't expect me to participate," Reid stammered, startled to attention.

"I do."

"I won't do it." The words echoed eerily in his mind. How could he? Beating back the repressed memories of his harrowing captivity and its violent brutality still continued to drain all his energy.

Strauss was unfazed. "There is an actor in Hollywood who is a dead ringer for you. They're ready to use him if you refuse."

"Let him."

"It's not a choice." Strauss' tone broached no argument. "The case is going to go public, and the Director wants to control the facts. He doesn't want a Hollywood version of this. He wants the FBI version."

"Why? My encounter with Hankel was hardly heroic." Reid tried to sound matter-of-fact. He'd done what he had to.

"That's not what the public will see. The official FBI line is that your survival was inspiring. I wouldn't be surprised if before the taping you are awarded a medal."

Reid saw no trace of humor in her expression.

"Dear God," he breathed. His genius mind raced through every possible avenue of escape and came up with nothing but dead ends.

"I wanted you to hear this before anyone else."

So you could get the maximum enjoyment out of telling me, Reid thought.

"God," he whispered again.

"The producers will be in touch with you," Strauss said. "Now if..."

"My mother!" Reid exclaimed. "My mother can never know about this. I never… She can never see it."

"Handle that as you see fit." Strauss leaned forward with what Reid supposed she thought was a sympathetic smile. "I know this was a traumatic experience for you. Naturally you don't want to relive it. But it was over a year ago." So get over it, her tone implied

One year, three months, 21 days, 12 hours. Ancient history to Strauss apparently. A palpable second ago to Reid. With his eidetic memory, it would always be a second ago.

Strauss stood up, signaling an end to the conversation.

Reid rose numbly. Inner demons shrieked so loudly, he didn't hear Strauss dismissing him.

Turning, he groped for the doorknob and burst blindly into the corridor. He didn't notice Hotch until the Unit Chief grabbed his shoulders to keep the two of them from colliding. Reid jerked free without looking up and stumbled away.

"Reid?"

Hotch watched as the young man almost tumbled down the steps to the bullpen, oblivious to the concerned looks and queries of his teammates.

Hotch whirled and charged into Strauss' office, anger burning dangerously in his eyes.

"What the hell did you say to him?" he demanded.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 2

Strauss' sparse retelling of the news about the upcoming "48 Hours" episode had drawn more curses from Hotch. He was certain the few choice words he left hanging in the air as he stormed out of her office would provide juicy fodder for his personnel file.

He could not have cared less.

Learning that the Hankel case was going to be re-enacted, scrutinized, and broadcast on public airwaves had undoubtedly upended Reid's world. The only thing worse would be exhuming Hankel's corpse and shoving it in Reid's face.

Finding Reid quickly was imperative. Hotch knew word of the "48 Hours" special would soon sweep through the BAU and the rest of the FBI like wildfire. And once again Reid would find himself the object of stares and awkward silences. The same "you could hear a pin drop" silences that followed Reid around after the incident in Georgia.

Hotch remembered how Reid had tried to shrink deep inside himself. Hotch knew it had drawn upon every ounce of his inner strength to come to work each day. Until even this tenuous lifeline had snapped, hurtling Reid temporarily into the abyss. An abyss no one had yet dared to openly acknowledge.

Hotch could understand the FBI's position. If the "48 Hours" story was a done deal, the FBI naturally wanted to shine the best possible light on the whole sorry episode. But no one seemed to have given the least regard to Reid himself.

Given the extent of the psychological damage, Hotch was certain Reid's intellectual shield was still undergoing major repair. How precarious was his state of mind? Was this enough to send him careening off on another crash course?

As he searched the building - more and more frantically - for Reid, Hotch tried to imagine the anxiety Reid must be feeling. To be ordered to recount his horrifying experience was bad enough. To expose his living nightmare to an audience of millions...

And Reid was scrupulously honest. If asked, he would admit to being terrified, to doing whatever was necessary in the moment to survive. To someone as private as Reid, the prospect must be almost as terrifying.

Terrifying enough to seek any escape, no matter how drastic?

Dammit, where was he? 

Reid had rushed out of Strauss' office in a mounting panic. He had been vaguely aware of someone in his path, but his immediate need had been a hiding place. How his mind would react to the shock he had received was unpredictable. He didn't want witnesses to the emotional and mental turmoil that unexpectedly, if less frequently, disabled him from time to time.

Ever since Georgia, there had been a fear in the pit of his stomach, like a tuning fork, like a violin string, that he had begun to believe would always be there and would always vibrate.

Strauss had said his role on the show would be minor.

"They'll ask you a few questions. You answer them." Child's play, her glare said.

Just the facts, yes ma'am. Devoid of any messy human element. Reid wondered if Strauss had any soft spot apart from her favorite son.

Reid knew it was a lie. He would be the "star," the only one still alive who had direct experience with Hankel's bloody delusions. They would want to root out every violent, titillating detail about Hankel, his three personalities, and his almost three days in captivity.

The speculation and rumors that continued to swirl through the FBI remained simply that. Not even his teammates knew more than Reid had reluctantly divulged. He couldn't control what they had no doubt guessed in those dark weeks and months after his life has supposedly return to "normal."

No, if he had to do this, he was determined to shield as many secrets from the spotlight as possible.

By the time he found a secluded spot, Reid was close to hyperventilating. He felt as if he had run up all 1,455 steps to the top of the Las Vegas Stratosphere.

Panting, he dropped his head below his waist. Without warning, he was back strapped to a wooden chair.

_"I don't care whether you're weak or strong. Scream all you want, nobody can hear you."_

Hankel's roars had been deep enough to shake the cabin timbers, send shock waves pulsing into the atmosphere, rattle the stars. Deep enough to pierce him through, pulverize his courage, shatter hope.

_"Liar! When I am done with you, boy, you'll beg to confess."_

Reid covered his face with his hands and slumped against a wall.

That was how Hotch found him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to all you wonderful reviewers and readers!**

Chapter 3

_A single verse wormed its way into his memory after Reid returned home from Georgia._

_It was from "The Madness of Suibne," and his mother had read it to him when he was five._

_Suibne Geilt, the poet-King of Dal Ariadhe, had been cursed and driven mad. Misery followed misery, until one night, a snowstorm caught him without clothes, perched in the fork of a tree._

"_I am in great distress tonight,_

_Pure wind my body pierces;_

_My feet are wounded, my cheek pale,_

_Great God, I have cause for grief!"_

_The lament replayed remorselessly day and wakeful night until Reid himself thought he might go mad._

* * *

If his senses hadn't been on high alert, Hotch would have kept moving past the vacant office on the tenth floor as he made his way to the roof in search of Reid. He would have missed the faint whimper that stopped him in his tracks.

Slowly, he pushed on the partially open door and stepped quietly inside. Reid was propped against the wall to his right. He lowered his hands, but gave no sign he was aware of Hotch. His body slid halfway down the wall. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance, where Hotch could imagine a spectral drama of life and death scenes was playing out.

Hotch shut the door gently. This was going to be delicate enough without even well-meaning intruders.

"Reid," he said cautiously.

Fear, defiance, apprehension, despair flickered in rapid succession in Reid's hazel eyes. But no recognition.

Hotch almost expected Tobias or one of his alter egos to materialize in the empty room.

Reid was having a flashback. Not surprising, Hotch thought, after being slammed with absolutely no warning into recalling the traumatic events that took place in Georgia.

Hotch mentally reviewed what he knew about helping someone in the grip of a flashback or panic attack.

Avoid sudden movements that may startle the person, especially when the flashback is a result of PTSD.

Make the person aware of his surroundings to break the sense of detachment and dissociation from one's own body that increases the panic. Orient him to objects or people in the room. Ask if it is okay to touch him. State the day, month, and physical location.

Encourage slow, deep breaths. People having panic attacks often lose control of their breathing or become so frightened they forget to breathe properly.

Stress that the person is safe.

Steadying himself, Hotch forced himself to stand perfectly still.

"Reid, it's Hotch. Please look at me. Do you know where you are? You're with me on the tenth floor of the FBI building in Quantico, Virginia. You're safe. Please look at me."

Reid didn't seem to be processing anything. He seemed so distant, Hotch wondered if they were on the same plane.

"Reid, it's 11:26 a.m. on Tuesday, February 12." Hotch thought Reid of all people would appreciate exactitude. "Do you remember coming to work?"

Hotch moved across the room to the shuttered windows and opened the blinds. Weak winter sunlight filtered in.

Reid blinked and turned slightly away from the light, but his face remained expressionless.

"Look, Reid, it's morning. Can you feel the sun on your face? Can you feel how warm it is?"

Reid's arms came up to hug himself tightly. Hotch wondered if he were actually cold. He edged a little closer.

"Reid, try to focus on my voice. You're safe. I'm here with you. It's an ordinary workday. No one is going to harm you. What you are seeing is not really happening. It's just a memory."

Hotch was having a hard time keeping his increasing anxiety out of his voice. Reid was so unresponsive. Keep talking, he told himself. As long as it takes to reach him.

Hotch started in again, repeating his prior words with subtle changes, stressing that Reid was safe, reiterating the date and month, describing the surroundings, watching for the least sign of awareness.

Five, ten minutes passed. Hotch was now standing about three feet directly in front of Reid, softly offering the same reassuring phrases, like a mantra.

In that barren, dimly lit room, Hotch lost all sense of time. All his senses were attuned to Reid, alert for any sign that the young man's ghastly visions were dissolving. Gradually, Reid lost the look of a haunted sleepwalker. Hotch saw awareness gradually seep into Reid's eyes.

He took a step closer. Reid's confused eyes met his, and he focused on Hotch's face for the first time.

"Welcome back."

Reid's gaze flitted to his watch, but he still seemed to exist slightly out of time.

He swayed slightly.

"Hotch?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

_"Hankel?" Hotch had repeated in alarm and disbelief when Detective Farraday named the dogs' owner._

_Dread had washed over him. _

_"Morgan, get Reid or J J on the phone this minute," Hotch had barked._

_How long ago had he ordered his two least experienced agents, all unknowing, to confront a serial killer?_

_"No answer, either of them."_

_Too damn long._

_The unstoppable tragedy had slammed into him. He had delivered Hansel and Gretel to the witch._

* * *

"Hotch?"

Doubt and hope wavered in Reid's voice, as if his senses couldn't be trusted.

Reid's was finally emerging from his flashback. Hotch needed to ground him in reality.

"Yes, I'm here with you."

Hotch extended his hand. "May I touch you?"

Reid stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then he nodded weakly.

Hotch laid a hand on his agent's shoulder. Despite the lightness of his touch, Reid's knees almost buckled.

"Whoa," Hotch said, steadying him with a firmer hand.

"Sorry," Reid murmured. He shivered.

"Do you need my jacket?"

Reid shook his head. "It's not that kind of cold."

He gazed slowly around the office. "I was having a flashback, wasn't I?"

"Yes."

"I hoped I was past those." Reid sounded both angry and defeated.

"There is no time frame for PTSD."

"Or a total cure. I know," Reid said wearily. "Just symptom management."

Reid straightened and drew back. Hotch reluctantly let go.

Reid gave Hotch the ghost of a smile. "As you can see, I haven't exactly become an expert at that." He closed his eyes, his body rocking slightly.

Hotch's right arm instinctively grasped Reid's shoulder.

"Still a little shaky. Sorry," Reid apologized.

"Why don't we get you seated? Even though you can stand on your own two feet very well," Hotch added, anticipating Reid's reflexive objection.

It surprised Hotch how unsteady Reid actually was. The flashback had been every bit as serious as it had seemed.

Hotch guided Reid over to a lone wooden chair near the center of the room and kept a protective hand on his back as the young man sank into it.

Reid briefly put his head on his knees, inhaling deeply.

Hotch hovered uncertainly.

When Reid looked at him again, confusion played across his features.

"I'm grateful, but what are you doing here?" he asked, gesturing vaguely.

"Strauss told me. About '48 Hours'."

"You know?"

Hotch nodded. "I wanted to reach you first. Do you want to talk about it?"

Giving Reid a chance to discuss what he had just experienced and what had triggered the flashback was supposed to help.

"To a nationwide audience? God, no."

"I don't mean on television. Do you want to talk about what you're feeling?"

Reid's laugh was as brittle as tumbleweed. "How do they do it?"

"Who?" Hotch asked, puzzled. Where was Reid in his mind now?

"The victims...the survivors...who agree..." Reid's voice cracked. Hotch watched as he tried to regain control of himself. "Who agree to be on these crime shows. How do they dredge up those memories without losing it? And why?"

Hotch had no answer.

"My mother, Hotch." 

* * *

"_Don't tell my Mom."_

_It was almost the first thing Reid had said at the hospital when he was thinking clearly again._

_No one had. Not when he was kidnapped, not when he was found. It should have been the first thing they did when Reid went missing. If it had been any other agent... Hotch didn't know why it had been an unspoken decision, to draw the curtains around Reid's fate. To keep his sick mother from knowing. Was it mercy or simply unjustified denial? How could he have excused it to Strauss if the worst had happened?_

* * *

Reid's expressive eyes, that could range through every nuance of feeling in seconds, now reflected only worry. Was it possible he had never told his mother about his kidnapping either?

"We'll think of something," Hotch said reassuringly, hoping to staunch the despair bleeding into the air around Reid.

Reid lifted his head to meet Hotch's eyes. The tendons in his neck were as tight as steel cables.

"Strauss ordered me to do the show."

"I know. The team was, too."

"Do you think they'll give me a blindfold and a last cigarette?"

"You survived Hankel. You'll survive this."

"I would never ask any of you to lie. On TV," Reid said unexpectedly.

For a moment, the suspicion Hotch refused to name ran cold in his veins.

"We should go back," was all he said.

Reid seemed to have wandered into his own mind again. "The most miserable misfortune is to have been happy once," he said.

Hotch had no idea what Reid was talking about.

"The sixth century philosopher, Boethius, wrote that. It's from _De Consolatione Philosophiae_," Reid said, as if that explained everything.

Hotch patted the young man's shoulder awkwardly. "It will all work out."

He doubted either one of them believed it.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 5

_It was forever etched in SSA Aaron Hotchner's brain. After they found Reid, lucid, he had lapsed into a dazed delirium in the ambulance. Slipping in and out of reality. He had looked up at Hotch with a sudden fearful clarity. His trembling right hand had come up, clutching at Hotch's shirtsleeve. _

_In barely more than a whisper, Reid had pleaded, "Be careful, Hotch. He wants to kill you. It's my fault. I'm sorry."_

_Hotch had kept his shocked concern hidden. "Hankel's dead, Reid."_

_"No," Reid had shaken his head feebly. "You can't kill him. There's three of him. He always finds you."_

_With a sigh, Reid's eyes had closed. Hotch had looked at the painfully battered face of his lightly sleeping agent, shocked at this manifestation of the psychological trauma Reid had endured._

* * *

**Three weeks later**

"Hey, Peter, the FBI are here."

Van Sant broke off his conversation with the assistant producer and turned. As the anchor of "48 Hours Mystery," he had interviewed hundreds of persons caught up in the whirlwind of crime.

But this case had intrigued him from the start. After all, how often did an FBI agent play the victim? And this agent was reputedly the brightest star of the Bureau. Apparently, his decision to attend the Academy had sparked an intra-agency turf war that had become the stuff of legend, with the BAU the winner.

The set fell silent as the double doors swung open, and three men entered the studio that "48 Hours" had rented in D.C. Van Sant's eyes latched onto the tall, dark-haired one on the left, dressed in a black suit and a conservative tie. Mr. FBI, without a doubt. The rugged, dark-skinned agent with a clean-shaven head on the right was all muscle under his charcoal gray suit.

But who was the teenager they were flanking? Compared to their stolid masses, the boy looked almost delicate. Long hair framed fine-boned features that were almost classically beautiful. His light-colored casual clothes hung somewhat loosely on his lanky frame.

The agents on either side of the boy were glancing left and right as if searching for snipers. The older agent leaned in close and whispered something to the boy. It was then that Van Sant realized the boy was practically vibrating with tension. If his companions weren't keeping a light touch on either arm, Van Sant sensed he might bolt.

The way the agents were guarding him, you might think the young man was in custody. But the only suspect in the Hankel case was dead.

"Who's the kid?" he asked his assistant producer.

"You're joking, right? That's our star witness. The _wunderkind_ Hankel kidnapped and tortured." He consulted his notes. "Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid to you."

Van Sant watched as the young man let himself be maneuvered to the center of the studio. The crew had backed away and stood at a respectful distance from the invisible force field the two older agents were projecting. They weren't menacing exactly, but they sent a clear message not to crowd the young man.

Van Sant left his stool and strolled over. Up close, the young man no longer looked like a teenager, but he couldn't be more than 25 or 26. Adding to his youthful appeal was an air of pure innocence that was hard to square with his ordeal.

"Peter Van Sant," he said, extending his hand.

The dark-haired man returned his grip. "Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. That's Special Agent Derek Morgan."

The dark-skinned man pumped his hand without a word.

"And this," Agent Hotchner said, "is Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid."

The young man's eyes flickered briefly to Van Sant's face. He did not shake hands.

"Welcome, gentleman. We are still setting up. Can I offer you something to drink?"

"I'm sure Dr. Reid would appreciate some coffee. Black with sugar. Thanks," said Agent Morgan.

"Of course. Monica." Van Sant beckoned to a nearby assistant. "Show our guests to the Green Room. Make yourselves comfortable until we're ready."

Van Sant watched them move off. They were going to be a difficult group to interview. Law enforcement personnel usually were, but these FBI agents seemed particularly closed off. If not openly hostile, they didn't seem inclined to be forthcoming.

He could almost feel the resentment simmering beneath the surface of the two older agents. Not for themselves, but on Dr. Reid's behalf.

Van Sant didn't know what to make of Dr. Reid. He hadn't spoken a word, had barely made eye contact. The skin around his eyes looked bruised, and the anchor wondered if he had always been so painfully thin.

Word had come down through channels that he was to be careful handling the young man. Van Sant had scoffed. The man was a fully-trained FBI agent after all.

But maybe the gentle approach would be the best. Harshly grilling the skittish, withdrawn agent on camera could make Van Sant look as sadistic as Hankel. Why were Agents Hotchner and Morgan on such high alert, if they weren't worried about the kid? Was he as fragile as he looked? What emotional toll had Hankel taken on him?

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 6

_"_Bastinado_," Gideon had muttered savagely, staring at Reid's swollen and mottled foot. "An ancient form of torture outlawed by the Geneva Convention. The pain must have been excruciating."_

_Behind him, Morgan heard J J's muted sob._

_Whether it had a name or not, the damage inflicted looked extensive. Possible broken bones, nerve damage. Reid could clearly not support any weight on it. How had he reached the cemetery? Crawling on his hands and knees? The wet dirt clinging to the lower legs of his trousers seemed to confirm this._

* * *

The "48 Hours" interview set had been designed to simulate a warm and comfortable living room. A velvet rust-colored demi-sofa faced a brown scroll-winged leather armchair on a six-inch-high wooden platform. A rug lay at the foot of the sofa, underneath a purely decorative mahogany coffee table. Matching table lamps cast a cozy yellow glow not entirely obliterated by the blinding light shining down from banks of overhead spotlights.

A wood frame covered with tan canvas simulated the back and side walls. Sage green curtains were drawn over a non-existent window. Plywood shelving stained to resemble walnut and artfully set with native American pottery graced the wall behind the armchair.

Right now, the set, with its _faux_ homey feel to put guests at ease, was empty. A sound check on a faulty boom mike had delayed the start of the interview after the three FBI agents had been brought back into the studio. Now they were waiting as the cameraman on Camera 2 was jockeying the balky stationary camera to capture the best light.

From near the preview monitor, Van Sant watched the tight-knit group. The rest of the team had arrived about twenty minutes ago. Three of them were women. The blonde cheerleader-type and the raven-haired woman with bangs were drop-dead gorgeous. They were going to be knockouts on camera.

The chunkier blonde was an eyeful, too, with her glitter glasses, clunky costume jewelry, and décolletage. She couldn't be an agent. She must be the computer geek of the BAU, Garcia, Van Sant guessed. The one his notes said had been flown to Georgia the day after Dr. Reid's kidnapping, to search for clues buried in Hankel's computers.

The group was milling loosely around Dr. Reid. Circling the wagons, the anchor thought.

An expensively dressed man with graying hair and a neatly trimmed goatee stood slightly apart. The anchor noticed that his benevolent gaze was focused with a surprisingly hawk-like intensity on Dr. Reid.

He wasn't hovering like the others, but whenever the young man showed any signs of agitation, usually with hand gestures, he would step in to murmur a word or gently lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Who's the guy in the silk suit and 24-carat jewelry?" Van Sant asked his production assistant, leafing through his notes, but coming up blank.

"His name's David Rossi. You've heard of him. Legendary profiler. Best-selling author."

"Nostalgic reminiscences about serial killers in the good old days, right? What's he doing here?"

"He came out of retirement last year. He's one of the team now."

"There's nothing in the notes about him being in Georgia."

"He wasn't. Another BAU legend, Jason Gideon, was. Word has it Dr. Reid was his protégé."

"He disappeared, right? Without a word."

"Another rumor has it that Dr. Reid carries a letter Gideon left for him in his pocket. Don't know whether it's true or not."

A riddle inside an enigma, this Dr. Reid, thought Van Sant.

"Ready when you are," the director said. He jerked his head in the direction of the FBI agents. "Don't envy you getting them to open up."

"They'll talk, but will they give up what really happened?"

"Why wouldn't they? You think there's some secret?"

"The government always holds something back, just to keep in practice," Van Sant said.

Of course, the FBI file on the Hankel case had been scrubbed. That was normal. Still, his reporter's instinct sensed there was more to the story.

He studied the six agents clustered around a pale and rigid Dr. Reid. Did any of these people ever smile? Agent Hotchner's scowl and piercing stare were especially scary. Agent Morgan could be set off like a tinderbox. The blonde (Agent Jareau, was it?) was unaccountably jumpy. She was the one who visited Hankel's farm with Reid. The one who was attacked by dogs. An absorbing sub story the anchor hope to milk.

The brunette, Agent Prentiss by default, whose face was blankly neutral, was actually coiled for attack, Van Sant realized. The computer geek, Penelope Garcia, was fidgety and babbling.

Even David Rossi, who hadn't even been on the case, who had only known Dr. Reid a few months, seemed on guard beneath his casual demeanor.

What was it about this kid that made everyone so protective? And what were they protecting him from?


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 7

_Reid had been cold, marrow-deep, meat-locker cold. In the heady relief of finding him, no one had even thought to put a jacket over his shivering form. _

_Morgan was ashamed of that. _

_Gideon, oblivious, bundled in wool, next to his summer-clad agent, even his shirtsleeves rolled up, shoeless, his left foot sockless. _

_Reid's breath had frosted the air, but he said nothing. Perhaps the cold had become a part of him, a frozen numbness all but unnoticed beneath the waves of other pain washing over his body._

* * *

Reid squirmed as a sound technician experimented with increasingly invasive places to fasten his microphone. He hated being touched.

He was seated on the set's demi-sofa. What a ridiculous name for a piece of furniture. Unbidden, the "little settee" in the bedroom where Hankel had slaughtered the Kyles surfaced in his memory.

Gideon had looked so sad, staring at the Kyles' bed, that Reid had been moved to ask why. Gideon's answer had puzzled him. Reid had observed Gideon examining grisly crime scene after grisly crime scene with a little or no emotion. Reid wondered if Gideon's inexplicable sadness had actually been a premonition.

The overhead spotlights radiated waves of heat, making him squint. With his contacts in, his eyes were painfully sensitive to brightness. He felt beads of sweat forming at his hairline.

Van Sant was settled in the armchair facing Reid. He had attached his own microphone with practiced ease. Without raising his eyes, Reid knew the sandy-haired anchor was studying him, had been since he entered the studio. Reid had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. Which, the profiler in Reid screamed, was only making Van Sant more curious.

Reid couldn't, didn't want to control his defensive reactions. All of his shields were up. He was resolved not to give too much away, to appear and sound completely detached and neutral. He would carefully choose his words, keeping his responses brief.

If that displeased the FBI or CBS, to hell with them.

A powder puff was thrust into his face, and Reid flattened himself against the corner of his seat.

"Hold still," the make-up girl scolded gently, dabbing his face with a fine dusting of powder. "Can't have you all shiny for the camera, can we? Let's fix those dark circles under your eyes, too."

Reid resisted the urge to sneeze as he batted the girl's hand away. She startled back, looking hurt.

"S-sorry," Reid stumbled out. "It's just…I don't…."

He saw Van Sant give the girl an almost imperceptible nod, and she retreated hastily.

Calm down, Reid told himself. You're already overreacting, and the interview hasn't started yet.

"Are you ready?" the anchor asked.

Reid nodded, his heart starting to race.

At a signal, cameras rapidly advanced like war machinery, blocking Reid's view of the team. Reid recoiled as the hulking metal casings surrounded him, less than a foot away. The impassive lenses stared at him like alien eyes.

Claustrophobia engulfed Reid, squeezing the space around him until it seemed no bigger than a coffin. Panic clutched at his heart. Shallow breaths echoed in his ears.

"Back off!"

Morgan materialized in front of Reid, his arms raised like a traffic cop.

A shocked silence had fallen on the set.

Reid felt Van Sant's appraising gaze on him.

"It's okay, Morgan," he said.

But Reid knew everyone could tell it wasn't. That they could hear the giveaway quaver, the shaky bravado in his voice.

"Give our guest space, guys," the anchor said, and the cameras withdrew a few feet.

Morgan threw Reid a quick glance over his shoulder before stepping aside.

Pull yourself together, Reid berated himself. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his reserve of inner strength.

He raised his eyes to meet Van Sant's.

"Let's get this over with."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 8

_After the euphoria of finding Reid alive, reality had set in. _

_At the hospital, the team had looked on helplessly as Reid's desperate need for rest was plagued by pain and frightful nightmares. They had taken turns holding his hand and wiping his feverish brow as his body was wracked by the chills, tremors, nausea, muscle spasms, and other agonies of withdrawal from the drugs the tox screen revealed Tobias had repeatedly injected into him._

_Back on the job, the team had been alarmed when Reid limped in late day after day, sickly, pale, haggard from lack of sleep and God knew what else, spouting lies as apologies. They had watched ineffectually as Reid receded, the vivid outlines of his personality disappearing into the black hole of his tortured self, until it seemed their hands would pass right through what remained of him._

_Hotch wondered how he could have been so naive as to think that everything would be all right once they found Reid._

* * *

Reid tried to detect even the faintest glimmer of fake sympathy as the "48 Hours" anchor began his questioning. Any excuse to justify his overwhelming desire to be unresponsive.

But Reid soon realized that, not surprisingly, the middle-aged anchor was as skilled an interviewer as Reid was a profiler. Placidly, with no hint of melodrama, Van Sant guided Reid through the events leading up to the abduction.

Reid knew these preliminaries were meant to put him at ease. The anchor's voice was low, impartial. Harmless details, his manner implied.

Except nothing about the Hankel case was safe territory for Reid any more. His ordeal at the hands of Tobias had tainted even his happy memories of the team's interrupted Super Bowl party. He couldn't predict his reaction to any question, never knew what innocuous or random comment or glimpse or recall would trigger a debilitating flashback or panic attack.

Van Sant was patient. He opened with a series of questions that could be answered "yes" or "no". He waited out Reid's terse two- and three-word responses as the questioning advanced. He proceeded chronologically, so that Reid could predict and prepare for what was coming next.

Reid saw through the strategy, but he was grateful nonetheless. The tension holding him rigidly upright, on full alert, ebbed slightly. But he was under no illusion. The questions would soon become more personal and invasive, trickier, if not impossible, to evade.

As the interview started, then closed in on his captivity, Reid was keenly aware that everyone's attention had riveted on him. Even his team was caught up in the suspense. How much of what he might be forced to reveal remained a secret to them? How much truth lay in their guesses? His self-consciousness climbed to new levels.

"You followed Hankel into the cornfield?" Van Sant asked.

"Yes."

"By yourself."

"Yes. It was my idea to circle around behind the barn."

"Leaving Agent Jareau by the entrance."

How many times had he tried to find a vestige of logic in his hasty decision? How many times had he failed? Second-guessing threatened to haunt him for life.

"I thought by covering both exits, we could trap him inside until backup arrived," Reid said.

His logic had been flawed. Almost fatally. He was sure everyone in the studio felt nothing but contempt for his feeble explanation.

"But Hankel escaped into the cornfield before you got there?"

"Yes. I called to Agent Jareau, but she didn't hear me."

He had never been reprimanded. Reid guessed the higher-ups had decided suffering in Hankel's clutches had been punishment enough.

"How did he overpower you?" Van Sant asked.

"I let my guard down."

"You were thrown off guard by your partner's screams, weren't you?"

"I let my guard down," Reid said stubbornly.

"Okay. In any event, Hankel took you by surprise and knocked you unconscious?"

With my own bloody gun. The thought still humiliated him.

"Yes," he replied.

"What's the next thing you remember?"

How long had he been out? Unaware that he was being transported, carried, shackled, bound to a chair by a serial killer? Helpless. It would have been so simple if Hankel had killed him then.

"A 40-watt light bulb, swinging on a cord above my head."

"Swinging?"

"Maybe, no, probably not. I had a concussion. My vision was blurry."

"What happened next?"

"An angel pointed a gun at my head and pulled the trigger," Reid said tonelessly.

Someone in the studio gasped. Van Sant was stunned by the emotional impact of the young agent's answer.

"An angel," Van Sant repeated after an interval.

Reid pushed through his escalating emotional turmoil.

"The archangel, Raphael. One of Hankel's personalities. He claimed he was enforcing God's will."

_I'm not interested in the arguments of men._

The echoing click of the gun's hammer coming down on an empty chamber drenched Reid in cold sweat.

Reid's detached facade collapsed.

"I can't...don't want to talk about him." His breathing felt ragged.

"Okay," Van Sant said pleasantly. "Maybe we can come back to it. What else do you remember?"

It overcame him in fresh waves.

"The smell." He tried to swallow the memory.

"Smell?"

"Fish hearts and livers, frying….." Reid visibly gagged.

"Water!" Van Sant barked.

A stagehand promptly produced a bottle. Reid didn't see it. Eyes closed, he fought to overcome the nausea washing over him.

He desperately hoped he wouldn't be sick in front of all these people.


	9. Chapter 9

**A heartfelt thanks for all your generous reviews.**

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 9

_There had been the scare that Reid would develop pneumonia after his prolonged exposure to the elements. Apart from a nasty, nagging cough that pained his team, no physical harm had come from the cold.  
_

_But off and on for weeks, Reid had bundled up, shivering violently from chills that the team hoped were psychosomatic. Privately, they shared an unvoiced fear that Hankel's hold over his drugged and abused agent extended beyond the grave._

* * *

The nausea that had crashed into Reid as his sense memory of frying fish hearts and livers overwhelmed him ebbed away. Reid took a deep breath and opened his eyes to see a worried-looking Morgan crouching beside him.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

Reid nodded. "It was… you know. Yeah, no big deal."

"I brought some Xanax."

"Not _here_," Reid hissed fiercely. He looked around furtively. "I can do this."

"I know. Just trying to help."

"But, thanks anyway." He gave Morgan an unconvincing smile.

"Sure." Morgan stood and clapped Reid on the shoulder. "Showtime," he said, moving back into the shadows with an encouraging nod.

The hush in the studio was palpable. Reid's gaze flickered over the assembled crew, who suddenly pretended they had all been looking at other things. At the back, his team made no pretense. They were watching him with evident concern.

Showtime. Reid forced himself to face Van Sant with a calm expression.

"Sorry," he said. "Must have been something I ate."

"Do you need a break?" the anchor asked, ignoring the lie.

"No," Reid said shortly. "Where were we?"

The anchor wisely refused to go there.

"Tell me about Hankel. From a professional standpoint. He had multiple personalities?"

Reid relaxed slightly. As long as his answers could be strictly clinical, as if he were giving a profile to a group of LEOs about any other Unsub, he should be okay.

"Yes, he suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder. He believed he was three different people."

"I understand you have experience dealing with mental illness."

Reid stiffened. Where had that question come from? How much dredging had CBS done into his personal history?

What sounded like a low growl came from Morgan's direction.

"Did that help you in dealing with Hankel's three personalities?" Van Sant followed up.

"If you mean I have a degree in psychology and I am a trained profiler, yes," Reid said defensively. Did anyone seriously expect him to mention his mother? "Once I realized I was dealing with three different people, I profiled each one."

"Can you describe each of Hankel's personalities? His father, for example."

"The father, Charles, was an abusive religious fanatic on a psychotic break." Keep it impersonal, Reid told himself. "He was waging a war against sinners."

"He thought you were a sinner."

"He thought everyone was a sinner. He just had to make his victims confess their sins to justify murder."

_Confess your sins, boy._ Charles' gruff command sounded without warning in his head.

Go on," the anchor prompted as Reid's pause lengthened. "About Charles."

"Beneath the surface, he was in a constant rage. Anything could set him off. You couldn't reason with him. He had absolutely no empathy or pity. The only way to stop his torture…." How hard could it be to control his voice? "Stop his torture was to get his son, Tobias, to reassert himself."

"And how did you do that?"

How long could he remain detached? An impartial observer of his own descent into hopelessness and pain?

"At first the three personalities seemed to rotate randomly," Reid said as emotionlessly as possible. "Tobias was the only one who showed any empathy or kindness."

_I'm sorry if he hurt you._

"I worked at building a rapport with him, trying to get him on my side."

_If you tell me where we are, my friends will come, and they'll save us._

"Did you succeed?"

Reid nodded absently. "I think by the end, we had become in a sense - I know this sounds preposterous - 'friends'."

Reid felt the collective inhale. He bowed his head. He hadn't meant to give that away.

"So Tobias actually helped you?"

_Tell me it doesn't help._

Reid tensed. This wasn't clinical anymore. He knew with sudden, sickening clarity where this was heading.

"Agent Reid?"

"Sorry. Could you repeat….?"

"Tobias helped you?"

"Yes. I appealed to him when I needed him most."

_This ends now. Confess your sins._

"And when was that?"

Black spots danced in his vision as blood rushed to his head.

"When Charles decided to beat me to death."

The last four words barely escaped before his throat closed up. His lungs ached as if he were drowning in ice water.

"How did you appeal to him?"

_Tobias, help me._

"I begged," he whispered.

He couldn't look at the cameras. Didn't want those unrelenting eyes recording the shame hiding there. Not that it mattered. His own words had branded him as weak, for all the world to see.

Reid jumped to his feet, ripping the microphone from his jacket.

He heard someone yell, "Cut!"

He was only vaguely aware of hands grasping at him as he fled the set.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 10

"A red orchid bloomed at the bottom of the dropper. He hesitated for a full second, then pressed the bulb, watching the liquid rush into the vein as if sucked by the silent thirst of his blood. There was an iridescent, thin coat of blood left in the dropper, and the white paper collar was soaked through with blood like a bandage...The shot hit him in the stomach, a soft sweet blow." - William S. Burroughs, "Naked Lunch"

_It didn't escape anyone's notice that Reid developed an obsessive interest in the writings of William S. Burroughs after he rejoined the team. He would take a seat at the back of the plane, pull out a book, and shut them out completely. His sudden irrational irritability and sarcasm would have kept them at bay in any event._

"I loosened the tie, and the dropper emptied into my vein...

'Was that alright?' asked Ike, smiling.

'If God made anything better, he kept it for Himself,' I said."

_At first they watched in surprised confusion. Instead of flipping pages at 20,000 words per minute, Reid would pour over each paragraph with agonizing slowness, practically mouthing the words as if they were of the gravest importance. More than once, Prentiss expected Morgan to jump up and rip the book out of Reid's hands in impatience._

"A mild degree of junk sickness always brought me the magic of childhood. 'It never fails,' I thought. 'Just like a shot. I wonder if all junkies score for this wonderful stuff.'"

_From time to time, Reid would lift his eyes from the page and stare into some internal space. Distress, anxiety, love, intense grief would flicker across his face as if he were sitting in the dark in front of a movie screen. Once J J swore she saw him soundlessly say, "Mom."_

"Life telescopes down to junk, one fix and looking forward to the next, 'stashes' and 'scripts,' 'spikes' and 'droppers.' The addict himself often feels that he is leading a normal life and that junk is incidental."

_Reid made no attempt to hide the books' titles, "Naked Lunch, The Place of Dead Roads," "Yage Letters." _

_But the one he almost flaunted was "Junky." _

_Sometimes when he left his seat, Reid would leave that book open, its black print seeming to jump off the page accusingly._

_Except for Gideon, everyone soon averted their eyes, pretending they weren't pierced by Reid's symbolic scream for help._

_Why had they each assumed that one of the others would go to Reid's rescue? Especially after suspicion turned to near certainty._

_They were awed when Reid found the strength to avoid catastrophe on his own._

* * *

The team, minus Reid and Rossi, now occupied the "48 Hours" set. Three more chairs had been added, and the whole arranged in a semi-circle facing the anchor.

Van Sant had moved up a planned group interview after Reid's abrupt departure. The anchor wanted to give the doctor enough time to regain his composure. Frankly, he wasn't sure if the interview with the young agent would resume at all.

Now, as he scrutinized the five closed-off faces staring back at him, the anchor wondered where any new land mines might lie hidden. He guessed there was one linked to Agent Jareau, who was attacked by Hankel's dogs. The blonde's fingers were twisting a tissue in her lap, and her eyes kept sliding away from his. The technical analyst, Garcia, to her left, was lightly touching Agent Jareau's arm.

He thought briefly that if this was the reception they gave a TV anchor, he never wanted to be a suspect. Still, he had a show to host.

"Before we begin, I want to thank all of you and the FBI for your cooperation."

And almost audible sound of derision from Garcia did not go unnoticed.

"I know this case became highly personal. I appreciate how difficult…."

"We are professionals," Agent Hotchner cut him off. The fixed, almost fierce expression in his eyes reminded Van Sant of an eagle.

"Of course," the anchor said placatingly. "I thought we could talk about what all of you experienced as a group first. I'll do one-on-one interviews later."

He took their silence as assent.

"Now, how did you find out Special Agent Dr. Reid had been taken by Hankel?"

* * *

In the Green Room, David Rossi figured he had given Spencer Reid enough space and time.

He had tracked down Reid after a discreet interval, waving off the other team members. He had come solely to provide moral support anyway. He wasn't on the roster of persons to be interviewed.

Reid had been pacing the ten-foot width of the room when Rossi entered. If he noticed Rossi, he gave no sign. His lips were forming words that only he could hear.

Then, abruptly, Reid had sat down, hunched over, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He had held this position without moving for eighteen minutes now.

Rossi eased himself into a chair directly across from Reid, thankful to be off his feet. He touched his two index fingers to his lips as he contemplated the young man.

"Reid," he ventured.

Reid's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. He did not look up. "It's okay to let me be by myself. Really."

"Hey, I'm at loose ends here. They're interviewing the team during your break."

The shaky, hollow sound Reid made could have been a laugh or a sob. Rossi wasn't sure.

"Break or breakdown?" Reid asked. Self-scorn laced his voice like curare.

"Nice wordplay, but 'breakdown' may be over-dramatic. I'm guessing it's more like a tsunami of uncontrollable and frightening emotions crashing over you."

"No one would call that over-dramatic."

Rossi was encouraged to see that Reid had changed position and was regarding him with a hint of amusement.

"You could make a living as a writer," Reid said.

Rossi's clever comeback never made it past his lips. He silently cursed as the light quickly went out of Reid's eyes and his gaze once again dropped to the floor.

"This is where I ask if you want to talk about it, and you say 'no'."

"Right." Reid's eyes met Rossi's. "Don't look at me expectantly."

Rossi spread his hands appeasingly.

"I thought I was prepared for this." Reid sounded betrayed. "But I can't seem to control my reactions. I keep being blind-sided. I hate it," he hissed.

"And it will keep happening. It's too soon for you to have any control over it. Especially here and now."

"Russian Roulette," Reid said distantly. His pupils were as black and sightless as gun barrels.

Rossi knew enough about Reid's ordeal to be gripped by a sudden chill. "What?" he asked as calmly as possible.

"This show…the interview. It's like Russian Roulette with questions. He keeps firing away, and you know that sooner or later, one of them will be fatal."

"You did what you had to do to survive. Appealing to Tobias was smart as hell. Nothing you say or do out there will make me or anyone else think any less of you."

Reid studied him. "You can't know that," he said flatly.

"Why? Because I wasn't there in Georgia, thank God? It doesn't matter. I didn't have to be there to judge. You know why?"

Rossi was pleased to see he held Reid's attention.

"Because the team couldn't make it plainer. In case you haven't noticed, they're out there ready to defend you to the death. And they saw what happened, some of it anyway. And watched you deal with the aftermath. They've made their judgment clear. That's more than good enough for me."

"Morgan offered me a Xanax," Reid said unexpectedly.

"Maybe.…"

"I'm not going to do this drugged," Reid said hotly.

So the rumors are probably true, Rossi thought.

"What's really bothering you?" Rossi asked.

"I'm not weak," Reid all but whispered. An emotion that could have been guilt flitted across his features.

"I agree," Rossi said mildly. "Why does that matter?"

Reid averted his eyes, bit his lip.

"I get it," Rossi said. "Hankel unleashed some powerful personal demons. But nothing I've seen or heard makes me think you're weak. The person you need to convince is you."

Reid gave Rossi a wan smile. "It's a work in progress."

Rossi watched Reid make a conscious effort to steel himself as he got up. He steadied himself by holding onto the back of the chair. "I should go back."

Rossi rose and halted him with a light touch.

"A wise man- no, not me - wrote," Rossi said, "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear."

"Mark Twain. He was also a great wit, Rossi. Maybe he meant it as a joke."


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer - I own none of these characters and make no profit from this work.

Chapter 11

"There are several varieties of writing croakers. Some will write only if they are convinced you are an addict, others only if they are convinced you are not. Most addicts put down a story worn smooth by years of use. Some claim gallstones or kidney stones...I got better results with facial neuralgia after I had looked up the symptoms and committed them to memory." - William S. Burroughs, "Junky"

_Reid knew the symptoms for 346 painful ailments. Facial neuralgia was an obvious choice, medically hard to verify. He felt more comfortable embellishing the injuries inflicted by Hankel - ribs cracked by Tobias' clumsy CPR, concussion headache, nerve damage to his left foot. It wasn't even a lie. He could look a "croaker" honestly in the eyes, describe the still lingering or vividly remembered pain, and walk out with a "script." _

_Later, in euphoric solitude, he would offer tearful thanks to Tobias for so generously sharing his precious supply of drugs._

* * *

On the "48 Hours" set, the group team interview had begun.

"Now, how did you find out Special Agent Dr. Reid had been taken by Hankel?" Van Sant had asked.

"All we knew at first was that he was missing," Prentiss said. "When we arrived at Hankel's farm, there was no sign of Hankel or of Dr. Reid."

"Agent Gideon and I searched the house, and Agents Morgan and Prentiss entered the barn," Hotch added.

"We knew something was seriously wrong when we found Agent Jareau, JJ, alone in the barn," Morgan said. "She was injured and in shock. Reid would have been right there by her side if he had been able. He would have never left her alone, hiding, with three dead dogs."

Van Sant looked to Agent Jareau for confirmation. But she seemed not to have heard. She was staring blankly straight ahead, as if looking at a ghastly reflection of herself in a mirror.

"The three dogs who tore the fourth victim to pieces?"

Agent Jareau closed her eyes and swayed slightly.

"They attacked Agent Jareau. She shot them, but not before being bitten."

"Thank goodness none of them was rabid," Garcia added.

"Dr. Reid and Agent Jareau had split up?" Van Sant asked.

"I let Reid run around to the back of the barn," Agent Jareau said suddenly. "I should have kept him with me or gone with him or followed after him or..." The blonde agent abruptly stopped speaking.

Van Sant let his gaze trail over the other team members' faces. Agent Morgan's eyes combined sympathy with a hint of disapproval. Agent Prentiss showed no emotion other than bland interest. Garcia had turned sideways and was whispering in Agent Jareau's ear.

If the team had chinks in its armor, Van Sant suspected they centered around the events leading up to Dr. Reid's kidnapping.

"Move on," Agent Hotchner commanded briskly.

Not that Agent Hotchner would permit exposing those chinks on nationwide television.

Van Sant cleared his throat. "Certainly. I understand, Agent Morgan, that you ran out back in search of Dr. Reid. What did you expect to find?"

_Morgan had been propelled by a powerful adrenaline rush. All of his training screamed at him to be careful. Hankel could be just outside the door. But the panic that sliced through him overcame caution. Gun in hand, he had rammed the barn door and burst out into the cornfield. What _had_ he expected to find?_

"We never assume the worst without evidence," Morgan said. How often had the BAU used that lie to console victims' families?

"In this case, a body?" Dr. Reid's body, Van Sant almost said. But, uncharacteristically, he felt reluctant to conjure up that image.

"Yes."

_A curtain of cold rain had blurred the row upon row of cornstalks, deadening sound. Morgan had crouched and run in a zigzag pattern to the edge of the field. The cornstalks drooped forlornly. He could see no ripple of movement in the rows, could hear only the drumbeat of rain. "Reid!" he had shouted. Then he had spotted a telltale patch of dirt._

"But you saw no sign of Dr. Reid?"

"Not Dr. Reid himself. But there was a depression in the dirt, as if someone had being lying there. And there were signs something or someone had been dragged. I was lucky to see that. The rain was washing all traces away."

_Morgan had been furious. How the hell had this happened? JJ had better have a damn good answer, he had thought._

* * *

"One of Hankel's personalities was his father Charles?" Van Sant asked.

"That's right," Hotch affirmed.

"What happened to the real Charles?"

"Tobias killed him about six months before the serial killings began," Prentiss answered.

"He murdered his own father?" Van Sant knew the answer, but he couldn't keep the revulsion at patricide out of his voice.

"Yes. We found out why from one of Tobias' journal entries," Morgan said.

"It was the trigger, that is, what caused Tobias' psychotic break," Hotch said. "Charles was sick and commanded his son to kill him."

"Coward," Morgan muttered contemptuously.

"I understand Tobias had preserved his father's body."

Agent Morgan grimaced with distaste. After a glance his way, Agent Hotchner took up the tale.

"Agent Morgan found the outside entrance to a cellar in the dark."

"Our first thought was that Hankel could be holding Dr. Reid down there," Prentiss said.

"Our hope," Agent Jareau breathed. "Not our thought, our hope."

"Of course," Garcia agreed warmly. "We never gave up hope." Her look defied anyone to contradict her in front of Agent Jareau.

"Tobias had converted the cellar into an icehouse," Morgan said.

Van Sant reluctantly transferred his gaze from Agent Jareau to Agent Morgan.

"Charles was propped up on a bench, frozen, with a gunshot to his temple. There was no sign of Dr. Reid or Hankel."

"As trained investigators, we should have noticed," Prentiss said. "But we wanted to find Dr. Reid so badly, we ignored the evidence. The cellar door was buried in fallen leaves. No one had been down there for months."

* * *

Van Sant's eyes glanced down to the next topic on his list.

"Tobias Hankel was a drug addict," he said.

"Is that in the file?" Hotch asked sharply.

Van Sant was taken aback by his tone. Surprised, he took in the taut poses of the group. They were warily alert, as if an armed suspect had stepped out of the shadows.

"It says you interviewed Hankel's former sponsor," Van Sant pointed out reasonably.

The team's tension ebbed slightly.

"Tobias dealt with his father's severe abuse by self-medicating, yes," Hotch said evenly. "That should cover the subject," he finished with steely finality.

Agent Hotchner's stern glare warned Van Sant not even to speculate why Hankel's drug habit was forbidden territory.

* * *

"Hankel set up a video feed from the cabin to his home computers using stolen equipment?" Van Sant moved forward in time.

"He broke into a store in Atlanta, yes," Hotch answered.

"That was how you found out Dr. Reid was alive."

The microphones picked up a faint shuddery breath. Agent Jareau, Van Sant thought.

"Seeing Dr. Reid must have been a huge relief," Van Sant said encouragingly.

"Briefly." Agent Hotchner's expression was grim. "Until we realized how desperate Dr. Reid's situation was."

"He'd been beaten," Prentiss said.

That much Van Sant knew, but little else. The records detailing Dr. Reid's precise injuries were sealed.

_The team had been horrified to see the tiny black and white figure of Reid multiplied across Hankel's monitors. Their first sight of Hankel had been chilling. His hulking mass, back to the camera, had loomed over the handcuffed and bloodied Reid. Reid's left foot was bare. Why?_

"The father, Charles, was in control. From the grisly nature of the murders, we knew he could be savagely violent," Hotch said.

"We felt so helpless," Garcia said.

"We were afraid," Agent Jareau corrected softly.

_They had felt a stab of pain, seeing Reid, so damaged, frightened, and vulnerable. Then dread had washed over them. What atrocity was Hankel planning?_

"We were afraid Hankel intended to torture and kill Reid in front of us." Memory choked Agent Morgan's voice.

"But that didn't happen," Van Sant said.

"Not then, no."

Van Sant was reminded that this interview was a remorseless march that would end in tragedy.


End file.
